Kathleen Hogan

Cubist Dreams


Steaming water hits my neck,

runs down the center of my back.

I quiver as it flows over

the spot where all

lonely moments hide.


Mosaic rays shine

through flamingo curtains.

In the time it takes

for an eyelash to fall to a cheek,

a few pink glints skip

over the blue tiles

and I want to tango.


I have walked with Picasso

down the Gothic Quarter’s

cobbled lanes, secretly attempting

to stay just a fraction ahead of him.

Not enough so he’d notice

but enough to know I won.


And I said, “No!”, when he asked

me to bare one breast,

afraid it would end up in a casket,

painted purple with a yellow nipple,

and that I would never be the same.





How do you find

your shadow in the dark

when you are afraid

of the spotlight’s shine?


I have been a barren earth,

whose clouds unleash

teems of water, moisture

that hits like the death

of a child with rosy cheeks.


Fear touches

with skeletal fingers

that paint undecipherable

symbols on my face.

I try to imagine they tell

of how I stood tall under

the hanging tree

with eyes wide open

but know they are

the air that passes

through a window.

Kathleen Hogan is a graduate of the University of Connecticut.  Her poetry has been published in Panoplyzine, Indolent Books What Rough Beast, Above The Bridge: The First Decade, and the Nancy Drew Anthology published by Silver Birch Press.  She is a member of the Bloom Reading Series committee in her Washington Heights neighborhood in New York City.